King and Lionheart
by Colors in Disguise
Summary: Peeta says I'm brave. Going through a war, forced to be a soldier on the front lines, being the face of a rebellion. On top of all that losing the person closest to me, the one that I desperately tried to save. And even after, still being able to go on. I say that he's better. Better than everybody who made it out alive. Better than those that survived against all odds.
1. Ambush

_And as the world comes to an end  
I'll be here to hold your hand 'cause  
You're my king and I'm your lionheart._

The first time I saw him back in Twelve was when he planted the primroses outside my house. "Katniss," he had begun cautiously before I had reacted with anger, yelling at him, attempting to mask every other emotion that I was feeling; ones that I had no intention of showing to him. As I berated him, he just stood in front of the new primroses, looking calmly at me. I have no doubt in my mind that if this was back when he had just been rescued from the Capitol he either would have killed me or laughed at me for revealing the monster that I really was.

When I had gotten back inside my house, it was a different story. Once I closed the door sobs immediately racked my body. Seeing Peeta moving, doing more than I had in months was already too much. He looked weak, weaker than he was during the Quell, but in comparison to the broken boy taken from the Capitol, he looks infinitely healthier. In comparison to me, though, he probably looked like the healthiest person in the whole town.

Ever since I had returned to District 12 I had refused to do most types of personal hygiene. Any food Greasy Sae made for me I ate at a turtle-like pace until she was satisfied with the amount and left. I'm positive I had huge bags under my eyes considering I can't even remember the last time I slept normally. Every night I wake screaming, the faces of the dead and left behind haunting me. Each night I see Prim being burnt alive. Finnick's face being ripped apart. Some nights I even dream of the tortures inflicted on Peeta at my own hand, seeing what he sees in a hijacked state.

Every day I have to deal with the images of night flashing through my head, nightmares that can't be escaped because they're reality. Facing the inexorable truth that Prim is gone. That I had nothing left. The status quo of protecting my little sister gone. An infinite cloud hanging over me, telling me I failed my only true goal.

But when I thought of the primrose bushes planted outside and the boy who did them, the sobs had dissipated a bit and there was a strange feeling that I hadn't had in awhile.

Hope.

Hope that maybe there was something salvageable from this wreckage. That the renewal that comes after every winter would appear to bring forth more light and more life. The dandelion that, though it is a weed, is always a constant and can be relied on for even the simplest uses.

And now, the boy with the bread who, so long ago, gave me the will to live, was doing it all over again, though I don't know if he realized it or not.

That day, I showered and dressed and combed and braided my hair. I did everything I could to stop myself from living the half-life that I had become wont to. Greasy Sae obviously noticed my change in appearance at dinner. She eyed me without the piteous look I had been accustomed to. She didn't watch me eat as carefully as she did that morning, like she knew herself that I was trying again.

The next morning, before breakfast, I went hunting. It was, in my standards, an embarrassing attempt. The only thing I managed to get was a squirrel, shot it right where the best meat was. Yet, when I brought it back to Sae she smiled wide, truly seeing myself begin to heal.

I hunted every morning, an excuse to leave the confining house. Then Peeta began to join me for breakfast and dinner, bringing with him a loaf of bread. When Sae finished cooking she would leave and go home, expecting us to talk, to help each other heal, I'm sure. For me, there were no words. For Peeta, he could never quite get the courage to say the right ones. We kept our conversations light and menial, when we - well, he - chose to talk. I never spoke without being asked a question, when I did answer they were short and to the point. We were skirting around edges that couldn't be crossed. Though I know Peeta wanted to.

In my head, I couldn't help but imagine him trying to kill me. There were times when he would noticeably tense, shutting his eyes tight, trying to fight the images that couldn't be made out from real or not real.

It was in those moments when I desperately wanted to help, but at the same time was worried for my own safety. Those dinners were always the worst because after the visions had subsided I watched as if he was a wild dog, ready to attack at any moment. The last time it had happened, I glared at him for the whole dinner. When he noticed my gaze, his eyes drifted down to his plate, ashamed of himself and what he had become. As he was leaving that night, he muttered an "I'm sorry," immediately filling me with guilt. I never said so but I know he can't help it, I know he's better, and I know I should be helping him as best I can instead of treating him like the enemy.

Now, though, as he says goodbye to Greasy Sae and thanks her for the meal, I feel the need talk to him, to really talk to him. No more tentative steps, treating each other like we'll break at any minute, we're not that fragile and we both know it.

Sitting down at the table I stare intently at my plate, not sure what exactly to say, words not suiting me well. "So Katniss, how was your day?" Peeta asks. He tries so hard every day. Asking me the same questions, hoping that I'll give him a different answer each time.

I look up, directly at his clear, blue eyes. Taking a shaky breath, I speak, "What are you doing here, Peeta?" it sounds harsher than I intended and he looks perplexed by my asking something. "I mean, everyday you come back and we say nothing and do nothing and it can't be easy on you, so why come back? Especially if you see me as a mutt," I am rambling, couldn't figure out how to start now I don't even know how to stop until Peeta cuts me off.

"I don't think you're a mutt," he speaks softly, as if calming a wounded animal. "I don't exactly know what to think of you, I know what I used to think of you and I know what he thinks of you, but all I know is that I want to know what I think right now. Coming back, seeing you, helps me remember things more clearly, see things for what they really are and not what was fabricated in a Capitol lab."

"But Peeta I don't even do anything," to me, he should move on, move away from the past that constricts him to fear and anguish, but a larger part, a more selfish part, wants him to stay with me, on some level I'm sure I need him to progress even farther than I have now. "You should be able to move on without me."

"No, Katniss!" Peeta bursts out, anger and pleading lacing his words. "You don't get it! Just seeing you, it makes things clearer yet more confusing. One side still hopelessly loves you while the other just wants to rip your throat out." He has his head in his hands, pulling on his blonde hair, trying to focus using pain; his eyes are shut tight, fighting off flashbacks. "Then there's me. Right now. Stuck between both of them. Two voices fighting for a chance to be heard while the third can't even speak because he's so trapped. But after I see you every day, the evil one - the wrong one - gets quieter, less insistent. I need that, Katniss. That's why I come back."

Lifting his head, his crystalline eyes meet mine, constantly dilating and then shifting back to blue. At that point I feel I have to tell Peeta what is going on in my head. He deserves so much, always being the best of us but getting the worst. If there is anything I can give him, even if it is just words that I've never spoken, I will.

"I can't sleep," I begin, speaking in the simple sentences that doctors had taught me. "I think I'm getting better but the nightmares just get worse. I wake up and they just replay in my head over and over again. I see Prim dying every time I close my eyes," I can feel myself shaking, taste the tears on my lips. Screams of loved ones bounce around in my head. It's all I can do to not scream right back.

Peeta's chair scrapes against the floor and I feel his arms wrap around me. "Please don't leave," I beg. The fear of facing another night alone is too much to bear. A sound sleep seems so enticing; it's something I have begun to crave.

"Katniss, I can't stay. I don't want to hurt you," his voice a whisper, his breath warm on my skin. His arms secure me to the safe feeling that I have longed for. The hope that I felt when I first saw him back.

"I know you don't sleep either," I murmur to him, recalling the times I had awoken in terror only to see the lights on in his own house. "Sometimes I see the light in your room on. Other times I hear you through the open windows, yelling and screaming, things crashing." I'm trying desperately to make him stay. For him to listen and agree. "Just, please. Will you stay with me tonight?" he tenses, his grip becoming tight. I know he's fighting with himself over whether or not the memory he sees is real. The promise he made to me on that day, though the sight before had probably broken his heart, his admiration and love for me would never leave.

So when he kisses the top of my head and whispers out "Always," I know that my boy with the bread is still there.


	2. My Head is an Animal

**Peeta's POV**

I walk from Katniss's house back to mine in the early hours of the morning, the sun just beginning to rise. I am tired, but the realistic fact is that last night was the best sleep I had gotten since coming back from the Capitol. At least the best that wasn't induced by morhpling, and even those ones just had nightmares impossible to wake from.

Though the night had not been completely peaceful, relative to what I was accustomed to, it seemed like a huge improvement. Back in Thirteen the doctors did wonders on me while the sun was out. I could go through a whole day without yelling at one of the nurses. I could look at a picture of Katniss and, instead of feeling fear or anger, I felt longing. Looking at a tape of her, I felt like the man who I used to be, desperately in love.

Sleeping in the same bed with Katniss again was...awkward. We didn't really know how we should act in this situation. I was fearful that I would awake with the sudden urge to snap her neck. Nights without flashbacks, while rare, were becoming more plentiful, the thankful signs of healing. But in my head I am still the monster that the Capitol created. A thing that should be locked away forever and never let out. So last night I kept my distance from Katniss while in bed. I didn't move to envelope her in my arms like on the train or in the Capitol. I stayed on one side of the bed, trying to think of something to say that would ease the tension. But the words that I thought of were limp, like back at the dinner table.

For her part, Katniss stayed on the other side of the bed. A small part of me was thinking that she was scared of me. The other side, the side that I so vehemently wanted to be, yearned to just reach out to her.

Later, I awoke from my own silent nightmare to her screams of terror. Quickly I moved to wrap her in my arms, waking her, and whispering to her, like a mantra, that I was there. I couldn't bring myself to say it's not real because for her they all are. Sobs shook through her, and as I helped her through everything I realized that this girl, flung into a rebellion only to lose everything she started it for, might have been more broken than I am now. I searched for my sanity, worked my way to it, the grueling process, seemingly impossible, that made me able to live beside the one that used to haunt me. But because I know Katniss, I know that she did not try to return to her state of normalcy. She stuck herself inside her own head and probably hoped that some divine intervention would take her to her sister. She turned herself into a dying star that would consume all it had only to find that it had nothing left to survive with.

That's when I realized I had to do more. That Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire, was going to run out of what she needed in order to burn. Soon she would go into a catatonic state. Maybe find her stuck at the bottom of a bottle, like Haymitch. Or turn to the addiction of morphling, like Johanna. Or maybe, just maybe, she would turn into Annie, crazy from a life where odds were never in her favor.

So when she woke me up this morning with a look in her eye impossible to place, and told me that I should go, I made a choice. She needed help, not in the form of drugs, or alcohol, but actually talking.

Upon returning to my home, I immediately pick up the phone and call Dr. Aurelius, knowing that he works with me as well as with Katniss. While we usually do have conversations weekly, every Sunday, Aurelius rarely hears from me at any other time.

"Peeta," he says, obviously surprised by my call. "Is there something the matter?" he asks cautiously, trying to decide whether or not I'm in the middle of an episode.

"No, Doctor, I'm fine. Actually, I'm feeling much better," I'm sure he can imagine the wide grin on my face right now.

"Well, Peeta, while that's great to hear, it is a bit early where I am, so is there something you needed?"

"Yes, I'm calling in regards of Katniss," I tell him, fidgeting a bit, anxious of what I'm going to say.

"You and I both know I can't give you any information on her case," Aurelius says casually, as if he's grown accustom to having to say this.

"Does she even have a case?" I ask, my words sharp, having a short-temper that just barely grows longer each day. I realized awoke ago that if people are lying to me, or if I think they're lying, I become harsh and impatient.

"She just needs time, Peeta," he explains, though it's not what I want to hear.

"You give her enough time soon she won't have any left," I reason, frustration overwhelming me. He sounds like he doesn't even care, for Christ's sake!

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, trying to calm my rising anger, "Now, you know I can't make her pick up the phone. Katniss is a very stubborn person. If she doesn't want to talk, she won't."

I nod and take a deep breath, exhaling and inhaling slowly. _I trust Dr. Aurelius. He has not lied to me. He will not lie to me._ I repeat this over in my head multiple times until I have returned to a normal level of sanity. _He_ doesn't trust anybody.

I speak slowly after regaining my composure, "What if I convince her to talk to you?"

"You are still persistent as ever, Peeta," Dr. Aurelius chuckles. Back in Thirteen, when he was working on me and decided to retire for the day I was insistent that we keep on working, concentrated on returning back to my old self. "If you can get Katniss to even pick up the phone, I'll consider you to have done a great contribution to her healing. I will call later. Goodbye, Peeta."

"Goodbye, Dr. Aurelius. Sorry for waking you," I sheepishly add the last part. After hanging up the phone I start my daily routine of making bread. Baking has become a sort of therapeutic activity since the rebellion. Definitely less hijack-inducing than painting. Every morning I bake two loaves of bread, one for Katniss and me, and one for Haymitch - somebody has to make sure he eats.

I move around the familiar kitchen, avoiding some of the broken objects I have yet to clean up, and try to release some of the anger that I felt during the conversation with Aurelius. I go through my time with Katniss and my mind ends up wandering to this morning, not too long ago. I can't say I wasn't surprised when she woke me so early, I didn't suspect she would tell me to leave. The voice in my head tells me that Katniss is ashamed of me, doesn't want anybody to know that we're sleeping in the same bed. Before I know it that's all I can think. She's ashamed. Ashamed that she would ever waste her time with me. Then the flashbacks start. I see her holding Gale's hand. Kissing him in the woods. Her laughing. "It would've never been you, Peeta." I grip the counter, trying to gain control of the images running through my head. Attempting to block out the biting words that this Katniss keeps saying. I see their kiss deepen, and then their clothes start to come off.

And then I'm in a room, filled with different paints and colored canvases. I start painting the white walls, filling them with gruesome images. Prim's body, charred and mangled, the only thing to recognize her is her eyes, still bright blue and innocent. I draw Gale and Katniss over and over again, deep shadows emphasizing their every moment on the wall.

Then I'm at Haymitch's house, my every action erratic and rough. My memory blanking in the oddest places. I grab a couple bottles of white liquor, not comprehending Haymitch's passed out figure. Before I can even make it back to my house, I've downed one half-empty bottle and thrown it to the ground.

The last thing I can recall before my memory gives out is me throwing paint on a wall while drinking a second bottle of liquor.

* * *

Coming to, I see the bleary colors on the wall, illuminated by late-afternoon sunlight. I groggily cover my eyes to evade the bright sun. The pounding in my head is almost overwhelming and I can just make out the pounding of a door above it. "Peeta!" Katniss yells, her voice muffled on the other side of the door. Sitting up, I feel the urge to vomit but hastily suppress it, putting my head in my hands and let out a groan. "Peeta?" Katniss's voice perks up at the sound of my own. "Peeta, open the door."

"Go away," I tell her, not wanting to risk another hijacking. I have yet to have a complete one in front of her since coming back and I plan to keep it that way. She doesn't have to see what I've become.

"I'm not leaving until you open the door," she says. Always so stubborn.

"You're gonna be there for awhile then," I reply. I hear her slide down the door to sit on the floor.

After what feels like hours of a standstill, Katniss speaks softly. "I found the empty liquor bottle outside my house," she says. "I thought it was Haymitch's but he said he hasn't left the house in days. He even tried to blame it on his geese." Haymitch and his geese have become sort of a running joke around town. Everybody hates them but they keep Haymitch preoccupied when he runs out of liquor. He says he hates them too but I think they're just a replacement for Katniss and me. "Then Dr. Aurelius called at dinner. I answered him," that's when I really started to pay attention, to become vested in what she was saying, instead of just absently wishing for her to leave. "I didn't really know how to talk to him. I haven't talked to anybody about my life since..." her words trailed off - reminding me a bit of Annie - though I know she is talking about Prim. Those two had been almost inseparable. "I talked to him, though. Told him about my first months back, before you were here. I didn't really do much but wallow around and be force-fed by Sae, you know?" I did know. I would never say it to her and I don't know if she'll ever acknowledge it but she turned into her mother for awhile. I don't even think she was aware that I was back until I planted those primrose bushes and helped her clean up after the whole Buttercup incident. But I did notice her in her post-traumatic state, doing nothing, just like her mother after her father died.

Katniss continued on with her story, no doubt trying to calm me down, though I am calm and just unwilling to put her at risk. "Then I told him about the primrose bushes you planted. I couldn't really go on after that, it made me think of her too much," and even then there was a crack her voice when she said 'her,' as if even the thought of what once was could break her. "After, Aurelius asked me if you were there, said he called your house but you didn't pick up," I hear her laugh a bit and can almost see the small smile playing in her lips. "I dropped the phone, didn't even bother to hang it up before I ran over here. Your front door was opened. The kitchen was a mess; there was a pile of dough on the floor and flour all around. A broken bottle and liquor all around. And on the staircase the walls had streaks of paint, like your hands were just dipped in buckets of colors." I look at my hands, and sure enough they're caked with paint, mostly dark colors that had begun to mix together. "Then I was pounding in your door, hoping that you were still there and hadn't done anything drastic. Hoping that you weren't gone."

"Katniss?" I say.

"Yeah?" her voice is almost impossibly soft for the Katniss that I know. The rough edges of a hard life in the Seam somehow gone. Almost as innocent as Prim used to sound.

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real?" I ask, recalling what I once said so close to my hijacked state that I'm not sure if what I'm remembering is even right.

But when she says "Real. Because that's what you and I do, protect each other," I know that it wasn't a dream or in the least bit shiny.

I open the door to her and not a moment later she's hugging me fiercely, in an attempt to apologize for something that wasn't her fault. And when I know she's seen the images on the wall she pulls me impossibly close, muttering 'I'm sorry," over and over again.

* * *

I continued to sleep at her house for the next few weeks. Every morning she would wake me up early and I would return back to my own home. It never bothered me because I knew she was just scared. Scared of people finding out, scared of what it meant, and too scared to hover over it for very long. But I never pushed her; I let her get through it because that's what she needed to do to protect herself and what I needed to do to protect her.

Every Sunday evening, Dr. Aurelius would call her and each of us would have an hour session with him, sometimes together and sometimes apart, both taking turns. I could tell the change in her, she seemed to not dwell on the past as long when she was sucked back into it. Her hunting even improved, now able to get a squirrel right through the eyes again.

She talked more, too. About the forest and how the animals were starting to come back, how the geese constantly came into her yard, and she even began to smile and laugh more. And that spark in her eye that had once been permanently engraved was coming back again.

She even began to look healthier. Her face was no longer as gaunt, her cheeks not so sunken in, and under her eyes the purple had gone away, the nightmares finally losing the intensity, and on some nights not even present. Her clothes were starting to fit her better, her dad's jacket doesn't hang as loose now, and her jeans and shirts aren't as baggy as they were before. Life was slowly creeping back into Katniss Everdeen.

I myself was feeling the effects of this new regimen. The flashbacks were less frequent and lacked the previous edge that they once had. I could see Katniss and not worry about what I might do to her if I let my guard down. I even started to help with the rebuilding process going on in town. When I looked at the rubble of District 12, I no longer thought that Katniss caused it. Though I still couldn't look at the bakery remains without violent memories flashing around in my head. Despite that, I was learning to control my hijackings as the other voice got quieter and quieter. I could feel myself turning into the man I was before I was taken to the Capitol. And with that I began to regain my feelings from before.

One day it all just clicked as I watched her take a bite if a cheese bun while I helped cook dinner. It happened just as fast as when she was singing the valley song in music class. It was such a slow build-up and then I was completely immersed, surrounded by these amorous feelings I thought I had lost. I heard that voice inside my head saying to her "You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?" remembering that first conversation with Katniss and knowing how fucked up I must have been to forget how special she was. After months of therapy, months of some of the worst conditions possible, I know that I have come to realize what I knew all along.

I love Katniss Everdeen. I remember, though some things are still shiny. The moment I could remember the bread and the dandelion clearly a voice in my head was telling me I loved her. Now I could truly believe it.

Even when the Capitol tried to make me hate her there was always something that told me I loved her. People who would come to my hospital room that old me stories that only reinforced that love. When Prim came to my room, a bit later on in my life in District 13, a talked about daily life around Katniss. How I would look at her, compared to how I looked at other girls. How I acted around her. Then she would go on to describe how Katniss would look at me and act around me. So different than the way she treated Gale. Painting a picture in my head that could make the biggest skeptic believe that Katniss had loved me. At that moment, I think I was the most skeptical.

"Snow knew," Prim had told me once. "Katniss may not have known it, but even Snow could see how much she loved you, that's why he used you to break her."

* * *

I wake up like I do every morning, dawn just breaking and the sun just visible among the horizon, pouring soft light into the room. I've grown accustom to waking at this hour, over the weeks the routine has become engraved into my head. In my arms is Katniss who found her way to me after a bout of small nightmares that would wake her intermittently. She looked so peaceful, the light shining softly on her face, erasing her scars, as if there was never any war, never anything that haunted her. If only that were the case.

I sighed, knowing that I had to get up and return home. If I stayed too long in the morning Katniss would become nervous that somebody would see and force me out the back door and for the rest of the morning she would act jittery around Sae, as if she knew.

I untangle myself from Katniss and quickly get dressed. Though she gets mad when she's late for hunting I decide against waking her, knowing that she needs her sleep. Gently I kiss her forehead and make my way out the front door.

The moment I close the door a voice rings out, invading the morning silence. "Kid!" _Shit._ Haymitch's slurred speech disrupts the air, causing his gaggle of geese to honk and hiss.

I greet him and give a polite wave before resuming getting back to my house, with no intention of having a conversation or acknowledging his presence anymore. "How was the one night stand with our Mockingjay?" he bellows, amusement evident, causing me stop completely. And just as easily as he knew it would be, I'm on his porch.

"You know nothing happened," I tell him, glaring. He leans against the porch railing, most likely because he can't stand up straight.

He laughs, the alcohol on his breath is almost crippling. "Yeah, you come out of her house every morning at the crack of dawn. Suppose you wouldn't be leaving if anything worthwhile happened." Haymitch walks past me and into his house, grabbing a bottle of white liquor from a cabinet.

"It's not like I want to leave," I say, sitting down at his kitchen table.

"Trust me, if I spent most 'a my day over there with sweetheart I'd be sneaking out too." Haymitch groans and the chair creaks as he takes a seat across from me.

Distressed, and for fear of a flashback, I put my head in my hands, tugging on my hair. "She tells me to leave early every morning. She's scared, I guess."

He laughs, "Boy, the only thing that girl's ever been scared of is losing who she loves." As all of my jumbled thoughts run through my head, what Haymitch said permeates through each one. It sticks in my mind; I'm trying to make clear as to why. I knew this. I knew that she was afraid to lose any more. That's Katniss. That's how she is. She won't change anything if she believes it's sustainable. And it is. But it won't work forever.

But if I change it just a bit...

In a beat, I'm running out the door and Haymitch is yelling at me about how I spilled his drink. I'm barreling through Katniss' door, not even bothering with knocking.

"Katniss," I call, hoping that she hasn't left to go hunting yet.

She emerges from the stairwell, dressed in her hunting gear. "Peeta!" she says, startled by my sudden reappearance. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I say hurriedly, so fast that Katniss looks disbelieving at me. "I just wanted to ask-" I take a deep breath, preparing to plunge into a discussion I had no desire to delve into an hour ago, "why do I have to leave every morning?" I speak so quickly that I wonder if she was even able to understand me.

"I don't-I don't know." she sputters out, obviously caught off guard.

"You're the one that asked me to stay in the first place, so why can't I stay the whole morning? Why do I have to hide?"

"Because I still don't know what you think of me! Last I heard I was an 'ally.' What exactly am I to you now?" she asks, calculating me, seeing which word I will choose from the bank I had built up since in District 13.

"You're Katniss," I say simply, though I know that won't suffice.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales haughtily. Looking up, her eyes are ablaze, making me wonder if I could ever capture that same hue in a painting. "And what does that mean to you? What do _I_ mean to you?" her voice is so full of passion yet at the same time exasperated. I know she wants to have this conversation, be assured of everything, but at the same time I know that this reassurance wouldn't needed to have been asked for before the hijacking. That if we were in this situation now, me without having to cautiously move around her, I would have been telling her what she wanted to hear now, and every day, without needing a queue.

"You're the reason I'm still here, Katniss," I say, shrugging my shoulders. "We've been doing this unorthodox dance for so long that I didn't think you wanted out of it," she casts her eyes down, which up until now had been piercing through me, requiring a sufficient answer. I smile at her; I speak louder, with more courage. "I do. I want to hold you before the nightmares. I want to hold your hand, like Finnick did with Annie, and never let go. I want you to want me to stay with you, not because you're scared, but because you want me around. I just..." I sigh, pausing, trying to decide if what I'm about to say is worth it. Whether it will scare her off or not.

"What, Peeta?" she squeaks out, asking me to go on.

"I want you, Katniss. Not like when we were the star-crossed lovers of District 12," I move closer to her, though we're still an arm's length apart and Katniss has her arms crossed, a defense mechanism no doubt, and a look in her eyes that I can't place, though they still blaze. "But like that one kiss in the cave," the one after she had gotten the medicine and saved my life. I move closer, uncross her arms, and put one hand on her waist while the other holds her hand. "Or on the beach before the lightning struck. When I _know_ you forgot the cameras were there. When it wasn't just me who was feeling something."

"It was never just you," she says, I can feel her hand fidgeting against mine and her head is declined so that she's looking at her feet. "I didn't really know what it was in the first Games but I knew I couldn't leave without you." She looks up and smirks at me, "I still owed you." I knew vaguely of Katniss's idea of owing. It was common among the people in the Seam. You never let a debt go unpaid. And to Katniss, she still owed me for the bread.

"You already saved my life, Katniss. I think your debt is paid." I tell her, returning her smile.

She shakes her head, "I don't think I've ever stopped owing you."

"Then would you be willing to do one last favor for me?" I ask. She looks up, her eyebrows raised in questioning. "Katniss, the only reason I go back to my house is essentially to bake and shower. And even then I bake here sometimes." I even tried to teach Katniss how to bake once, which was a total disaster. "So why don't I just live here?"

"But...what about your house?" I chuckle, her excuse so like Katniss, timid - not willing to say no but still afraid to say yes.

"Katniss, half the things in my house are broken. I will give it to the first person who wants it," I say.

"People don't want charity, Peeta," she says, though I know it's true I can't help but laugh again.

"Fine, I'll trade it for a sock if I have to. Whoever wants it can have it for whatever price." I can see the gears turning in her head. Probably imagining scenarios of us living together. Her face showed no emotion, though, making it impossible to tell what she thought of me moving in.

She sighs, "Do I have to help move your stuff?" a grin plays at her lips but it's no match for mine, which I'm sure is lopsided and goofy. I pull her into a tight hug, practically lifting her off the ground. She laughs into my ear, bright and bubbly, and I'm positive that it's my new favorite sound.


	3. Fight or Flight

Katniss' POV

The following weeks move quickly now that Peeta lives with me. Every morning I wake up content knowing that he doesn't have to rush out before anybody can see. Greasy Sae even stopped showing up to cook, apparently satisfied with the knowledge that I have Peeta to make sure I eat. Although I still bring her some of the things I shoot.

I hunt every day, finding a pleasant solitude in the familiar woods. Honestly, the first few days of being out there, I barely even hunted, only getting a squirrel or two. Of course, I told Peeta and Sae I did, just that I was rusty. I don't think either of them believed me.

Those days I just thought about Gale. I did miss him. I still do. He was my best friend and he helped me survive all those years. But every time I think of him, and I'm sure that, if I ever see him again, all I would imagine would be my sister.

So those days I tried to forget, tried to forget my sister's final moments, and tried to forget the man who caused them. I know that Peeta, with all the good in him, would tell me that it wasn't Gale - that he didn't order those bombs to be dropped and that he didn't put Prim out there. But really that's all I can imagine him doing. That's what some of my nightmares have him doing. I hate what my mind has turned him in to.

Now, though, I actually do hunt, Peeta and I have set up a routine every morning. We wake up, he makes breakfast, I go hunting and he helps with the rebuilding going on in town. I can start to see the effects of him working in town. His shoulders have broadened and the muscles that he had before the war have come back. His smile is bigger and all-around brighter. He looks...normal. Though I know that he actually isn't, and I doubt that either of us ever will be, it's still an odd word to use in such context. Our lives were anything but normal so why should they look as if they aren't? The only things that can physically connect Peeta to the war and his past are his leg, which isn't noticeable unless he wears shorts, and a burn mark that runs along his right forearm, the one that got touched by the flames as he saved me.

While some of our scars do match - I imagine Peeta's burns cover more than just his arm - the town treats us differently. All are sympathetic to both of us and can empathize with our losses but I know they think of me as the girl who went crazy. The girl who killed their leader and was exiled. The difference between Peeta and I is that Peeta actually talks to the community, while I do my best to avoid them. He's still charismatic as ever and I've basically turned into a recluse. The only time they see me is when I'm passing through to get to the woods. Never do I look up; I always keep my head low, avoiding the tragic scenery that I caused. When I do risk a glance there are some who stare and whisper, presumably the ones who came from Thirteen, the rest from Twelve know what I've lost and what she meant to me.

So when Peeta tells me that I should come and help out with the rebuilding this morning, I glare at him. "They could really use the help," he says, his tone is light, signifying that he's trying not to pressure me, but I still feel suffocated.

"They think I'm crazy," I say. Peeta comes to sit next to me on the couch as I put my boots on. He puts his hand on my knee and I can't help but tense up. It's supposed to be a comforting movement but we don't do those types of things unless we've just been through something or are in bed.

"Everybody in Twelve understands-"

"Not them," I snap. "The people from Thirteen. I'm just their Mockingjay who went crazy." I pause, Peeta's hand is still on my leg and I can't decide whether it's comforting or not. I can't determine why I find it unsettling, Hell, we only use about half the bed when we sleep, we're so close. "I killed Coin," I mutter, knowing that it's still a sore subject for some of the people from Thirteen.

"Yeah, I heard about that," he smiles, and for a moment I can see the Peeta that I knew before. I roll my eyes, trying not to smile, too. I walk into the kitchen and grab my father's jacket off the back of the chair. Behind me I hear Peeta's heavy footsteps sounding more irregular than his normal gait, which is only noticeable if you listen for, but is now obvious.

I turn around suddenly, so close to him that I actually have to look up a bit, with my arms crossed. "How's your leg, Peeta?" I ask. It has to be bothering him, he never takes it off when I'm around, so that means that he has to sleep in it, which can't be comfortable. I've asked about it before but he's always said it didn't bother him. He never complains about it, but really he never complains about much.

"It's fine, Katniss," his lie is unconvincing considering that he walks past me with a noticeable limp.

"You're limping," I say, turning to face him.

"I always limp," he shrugs. I've never been patient, there have been few exceptions and Peeta is one of them. So when he lies or avoids my questions, I'm patient because that's how he is with me. But I can't deal with seeing him in pain every day because he's too self-conscious. I want to argue with him, make him realize that he's being irrational, but he has a look in his eyes that tells me it's futile, probably the same look I give when I'm being idiotically stubborn. So I drop it, the same way he would for me, and agree to go into town with him.

In truth, as I stare at what I caused, I wish I never had to look at it again. Yes, it looks better than when I had last truly looked at it, but still not close to the rundown town it used to be. I wish I never had to set foot here again, because, unlike Peeta, I don't see the potential and hope in what it could be. Above all, though, I wish I did. I wish I could look at the town and its rubble and the buildings that are rising and see everything that it could be, but I don't. I see the ghosts of what it was, I see how it perished, what perished, who perished. I just see the past and the present and how it all hurts so much.

I move slowly through, realizing how different it is after the rebellion. Before, it had made some sense in that disastrous world, the despair here matched up with the rest. But now, in a country painted with hope, this misery doesn't make sense.

The first time I stop is at the mayor's house. Madge. One of the few people that I could call a friend. When I had come here after Twelve's destruction I never had time to actually mourn and now that's all I do. I collapse onto my knees, my hands digging into the earth. I want to yell and scream but at whom? There's only Snow, who is dead, and myself to blame. I _had_ to break the force field. I _had_to be the spark that led to a rebellion.

Peeta is kneeling beside me, one arm draped over my shoulders. I turn my head to look at him. "How did you feel?" I ask. "When you saw the bakery?"

"Lonely," he says, simply. The word rolls in my head. Lonely. That was probably when he first came back to Twelve. He had to face the destruction of his entire family all in one place, at one time. Without anybody. Most likely he had a terrible flashback that night, and I wasn't there to help, not that we were even on speaking grounds when he came back. And then all at once I feel guilty. I should have been there. I shouldn't have waited so long. I could've helped; I could've done...something, anything. God knows he would've for me. Right on cue Peeta says, "It's okay, Katniss. Couldn't be helped." He smiles reassuringly but it only fills me with more guilt.

Is it always going to feel this way? Am I always going to feel guilty for what I couldn't do for Peeta? Haymitch's voice rings in my head, "You could live a thousand lifetimes and not deserve him." And the response is still the same now as it was then. "Yeah," I say quietly out loud to Peeta. He helps me to my feet, holding my hand, and though it's a friendly gesture the intimacy is still unsettling and I can't understand why because my hand feels warm in a familiar way not connected with temperature at all.

I cross my arms over my chest, unsure of what to say or do. But Peeta, still ever charismatic, smiles warmly the way that I've missed for so long but never realized because I never _really_looked. "Come on," he says, "I gotta show you something."

I keep my head down as we pass the builders, like I do every day. "Katniss, nobody's looking," Peeta says. And when I chance a look I see he's right. They're all preoccupied, talking or working. "Like I said, everybody in Twelve understands. People care more than you know. Prim had an effect on everybody here." It's odd, hearing her name; because I think Peeta's the first to outright mention her ever since I returned. I bite my lip, thinking of the way Prim used to go around town staring at all the shops, how she would stop and look at the cakes on display. "And if anybody came here just to gawk at you, we set them straight because you aren't on display for an entire nation anymore." I'm silent, a proper response blanking in my head. I nod because, for all he's done, I can't even let out a simple 'Thank you.'

As we walk through town, the silence, to me, is crippling. Talking has never been a strong point of mine and quietness was always a welcomed friend, but right now I feel determined to say something. "She loved your cakes," I blurt out.

"Who?" He knows who, his nonchalance and refusal to look at me make me think that he is challenging me to say her name out loud.

I say Prim's name quietly, letting it slip through my lips carefully, speaking with fragility that if I don't everything will break and crumble around me and I'll never know that she existed in the first place.

"I would have done it; stolen you a cake," he admits, still not looking my way, seemingly intent on our destination. "I would've taken beating after beating if I could've just given Prim a cake."

"Why?" that boy who barely knew me, he shouldn't have wanted to risk his well-being for me.

He shrugs, "Because it would've made you happy." When he looks at me his eyes are solemn, sorrow and want mingling together in the most natural way that all I can think about is making it go away. "I would give you a million cakes right now if it meant you'd be happy." It's such a cheesy thing to say that I have to smile but I know that it's laced with unintended sadness.

Just when I'm about to respond someone calls Peeta's name and then he's rushing us over to the rubble of the bakery site. When we reach him Peeta shakes his hand and offers a brief "Hello, Thom." I recognize the man from around what used to be the Seam. I nod to him, the way I would show to respect to every other Seam member even though such deference shouldn't really exist in Twelve anymore.

"Peeta!" he says enthusiastically. "Great news, the bakery's blueprints are done! Finally finished'em last night!" Thom pulls a large piece of paper out of the bag at his feet and spreads it out over a crate beside him. The two men look over it critically, Thom exuding pride in his work and Peeta giving him compliments on some of the details.

I wonder how long he's been planning this. It obviously took a lot of effort to make it this far into the process. How long was I so completely self-absorbed to not notice this. I think back to the times when we would be sitting in the living room, myself silently reading a book and him drawing...something. I had always just assumed he was drawing something therapeutic like Dr. Aurelius had recommended but maybe he was actually working on the bakery.

Peeta waves me over to where there stand. "How does it look?" he asks. On the schematics the basic floor plan for the bakery is laid out. It's almost an exact replica of before it was burned to the ground. This time, though, it lacks the second floor and now there is a seating area for the customers to eat at their leisure.

I'm stunned. All this planning. All on his own, without me even knowing or inquiring. When he went to town I assumed he just helped to rebuild not plan to build something of his own. I am so horrible at being there for him. He's always here for me, supportive, asking me what I did every day. I couldn't even reciprocate a simple question. "This is great!" I say. "I didn't even know you were doing it."

"Dr. Aurelius said I needed a way to keep busy. I figured this would keep me busy for a long time," he flashes me a cheeky grin before he goes back to Thom, standing up from the crate to walk to where the bakery was. And as he moves closer, his limp ever prevalent, his leg buckles and he falls to the ground. I'm kneeling next to him in matter of seconds while he insistently tells me "I'm fine," and that it's "No big deal." This is changing, I think. This can't work. He can't go through this physical pain every day. He might've been taking care of me for awhile, but now it's his turn. I'm going to help him instead of selfishly seeking him out for my own help.

* * *

At night, as we're preparing to go to bed, I tell him "Goodnight," earning me a confused look. I walk past him, grabbing a blanket, and go downstairs to sleep on the couch.

"What are you doing?" he asks, following me to the living room.

"I'm sleeping down here tonight," he looks completely crestfallen when I say that, making me want to take it all back but I can't, because he shouldn't be in pain anymore. And I know this night is going to be rough for both of us, this being the first time we've slept separately since that dinner, but it will help in the long run. He knows it's about the leg, I've been staring at it ever since I brought it up, in hopes he would relent. Seeing that talking me out of this is futile, he walks back upstairs, his gait uneven.

I knew there would be nightmares and I assumed I would be able to get through them just as I did in the beginning. But when they do come it's not what I was expecting. Instead of horrific images of loved ones being engulfed by flames or attacked by mutts, I'm taken back to the first games, when Peeta and I are being carried off. But this time, when the partition goes up, I'm right to be screaming for him. They're injecting him with venom right before my eyes. It's different than being the one doing it to him; somehow a worse feeling is rising in my gut. Powerless. Being there, knowing all I can do is hit the glass wall and scream his name and watch him in pain, fighting the venom the best he can, and I can't even help.

I wake, sweat starting to run down my face. Now I understand how Peeta felt when his nightmares were about losing me. There's a pang in my chest and all I can think is how Peeta isn't going to be upstairs, that he'll be gone for good. I hate that feeling. The rational part in me knows he would never just leave or that somebody could just walk in and take him without getting noticed. Despite that, I still have an overwhelming need to go upstairs, to make sure he's still there. I suppose there's a part of me that will never stop thinking we're still in the arena.

I climb the stairs and open the door to our bedroom. It's dark and I can just make out his sleeping form on the bed. In my head I scold myself for thinking he would be gone. I detest how much I've come to rely on his presence. But as much as I hate that, I hate being without him at night even more.

As I find myself moving further into the room, and closer to Peeta, I see his prosthetic propped up against the nightstand and I can't help but feel minutely victorious. But that goes away when I see him, tense, eyes closed tightly, and grinding his teeth. And suddenly I'm guilty all over again. Guilty, guilty, guilty. We're both too stubborn and now we're both plagued by nightmares. If I could have made him agree to take it off rather than just leave, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if I was better with words and didn't use my actions as much, there wouldn't be an issue.

Right now, though, I don't think there's anything to say that would make him better. So cautiously, I slide into bed, hoping to help him some other way. I go to move his sweaty hair from his forehead but as I soon as I touch him, his hand snatches up mine. I let a gasp, not expecting him to be so alert. His eyes meet mine, his hand loosening its grip, and he exhales slowly. "Shit. Katniss."

"Sorry," I say bringing my hand back. "Probably should've known better." Peeta turns onto his side, facing me.

"No, I just wasn't expecting it. At least not tonight," he says, his face holding a mirthless smile, ringed with sadness.

"I'm sorry," all I do is feel remorseful.

He sighs. "Stop it. Stop apologizing. I was being stupid and I didn't want to feel like I was...broken. Ever since the hijacking, whenever I look at my leg I feel angry, angry at you. After that I just feel guilty for blaming you. And I just get stuck in my head," his eyes avert from mine and his jaw moves as he bites the inside of his cheek, probably trying to stay in control of himself.

"Dr. Aurelius says that's normal after what we've been through. Especially you," I say, not sure how to go about this. I'm not usually the one that has to reason, to talk someone out of the darkness that envelopes their mind. I take his hand that lies in the space between us; it feels limp and boneless, like all the hope has just drained out of him. "You're much better than me. On the days when I can tell you're worse you still manage to go through your routine. Even on days when we're both feeling low, you still take care of me when I can't even care how selfish I'm being." I squeeze his hand and his blue eyes lock onto mine. Though it's dark, the only light in the room is from the moon filtering in through the open window, I can see some tears stream down his face. "You're so strong," I whisper, "and so perfectly complete." I let go of his hand and start to wipe the tears from his face.

His hand moves to the back of my neck, bringing my head forward slightly, he places a soft kiss to my forehead. "And you say you're not good with words."

* * *

"Peeta, I'm going out!" I call, adjusting my jacket. It's after dinner and we've just finished cleaning the kitchen. Usually after this we would go into the living room and tell each other how our days were, doctor's orders.

He meets me at the door, drying his hands off on a towel. "Should I wait up?" I smile a bit, his question bordering on unnecessary.

"Would it even matter if I told you not to?"

He smiles, too. "I suppose it wouldn't."

I walk to the meadow, which, since it's been turned into a burial site, is filled with patches of fresh soil interspersed with green grass. And on the grass are some of the last dandelions, still standing, white and puffy, yet to be taken by the crisp autumn air settling in.

As I look at this place, hope mingled with loss, all I can think about is how Prim didn't even get to spend her last moments somewhere familiar. Instead she was blind-sided by her own country.

I take a seat on one of the green parts of the meadow, acutely aware that those around me are dead because of me. Pushing that thought from my mind I watch as the last remnants of the day begin to fade and the waning moon takes over.

Beside me I see one of the dandelions and think about how, in their golden state, gave me so much hope. I pluck the dandelion next to me from the ground, giving it a soft blow. The seeds on it go swirling through the air, the white specks going on until impossible to see in the darkness. I lie back on the grass, suddenly filled with an iridescent sense of peace and calm that I haven't felt since before the Games. Closing my eyes tentatively, I allow myself to drift off.

I see Peeta, smiling warmly in the way that he only does towards me. A look only meant for me. And only received by me. It's a look that says that nothing he could ever do for me would match how he really felt. That no possible action, not even saving my life numerous times, is enough to prove what I mean to him.

Then I see Prim, her hair as blonde and eyes just as blue as Peeta's. She's standing in the meadow, but instead of being noticeably filled with graves, the grass has come in and it's just as green as before. She smiles at me, so bright and cheerful that I allow myself to think for a moment that she's real. She's lifts her arms and I can see clearly what she's wearing, my wedding dress, post-transformation. But it seems to lack the weight that I remember being held down by and the wings look completely real. Then she begins to move her arms, up and down, as if flapping her wings. Prim herself starts to change, transforming into an actual mockingjay and flying away.

I want so badly to follow her but I'm stuck, stuck on the ground when I want so badly in the air. I'm the Mockingjay, why don't I have wings? Why can't I go with her? After all I've done it should have been me, the one who was given the honor of being granted wings, the one who's not meant on the ground, even if it was just a title that I have now outlived.

Then I'm being lifted off the ground and I think for a moment that I'm flying, going with Prim. That maybe my wings grew in like her's and I'll finally be able to be with her again. But my eyes flutter open and I feel strong arms around me and see the blue of a shirt that smells like sugar and bread. I can't help but move in closer and let my soft smile that I wear grow slightly bigger.

Maybe this is where Prim really wanted me to be. Maybe this is where my wings are.


End file.
